Daddy's Blunt Little Instrument
by Super Vanilla Bear
Summary: It's no secret that John pushes Dean to his limits and has extremely high standards of him. What happens if he takes it too far? Sick!Dean and Caring!Sam. Set during late season one.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** I do not own _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

This story is set toward the end of season one. It has a few tie-ins with other episodes, and John is definitely involved with this hunt. I wanted it to read like an actual _Supernatural_ episode that a viewer could fairly easily see on television, so that is my ultimate goal with this piece. It's more of a character study and less of a hunt, but I think it will work out nicely. As someone who avidly watches the show, season one is a favorite of mine, and I loved the interaction (whether positive or negative) between John and his sons.

I hope you all enjoy it!

* * *

_Chapter One_

* * *

"This party is sick!" Jason Fletcher shouts, the red solo cup of beer in his hand splashing around. He's been smiling goofily all night, especially because of the girls. Oh God, the girls. When did Tom get such _hot_ friends? Seriously, he could bounce a quarter off each girl's ass. He cracks his knuckles in anticipation, just waiting for a pretty lady to come up to him. Jason watches as no one dares to step a foot in his direction. Damn his good looks. It must intimidate them.

Instead of pushing it with the girls, Jason heads over to Tom. "Dude, this party is so awesome!" It's set in the woods of some old man's lot, who's probably too old and blind and deaf to notice. It's nearly two in the morning, and no one has left yet, knowing the stories of what lurks in these woods. Connected to three or four farmhouses or not, there have been sightings of a creature in these woods. Jason's been eager witness a supernatural phenomena because God knows it can't be human, but, so far, no luck.

"Yeah, I guess," Tom says. He's still searching for Sara, eyes going each direction to try to find the blond girl. He wants to apologize for acting like a jerk at her house and a know-it-all in front of her parents; he wasn't trying to. Guilt swells up inside of him. _Did I blow it?_ Sure, it's a fairly new relationship, so it has its kinks, but he would never intentionally hurt Sara. The need for an explanation is probably what's making her not want to approach him.

Jason shakes his head. "What is wrong with you? You've been moping around all night. It's a party, man, so party!" He starts to do a little fake dance, further spilling his beer, this time on Tom's shoes. "Oops." He backs up a bit. He's known Tom since they were seven, so he gets that he's stressed about Sara. But, that's the thing with Tom: he's always stressed. He's been under pressure brought on by himself probably since the dawn of time. It's just who he is.

Tom moves Jason out of the way without any hesitation. He's not being rude; he needs to find Sara. It's unlike her not show up at a party, particularly one on a property with such a weird background. He feels raindrops on his face and arms, so he pulls on his jacket and throws the hood up, stuffing his hands into the pouch. "Sara!" he yells, cupping his hands around his mouth, ignoring the looks from other partygoers. He goes farther into the woods, listening to branches and leaves snap beneath his feet with each step.

"Sara!"

He stops in his place when he hears shuffling from up ahead of him.

"Tom! I'm out here!"

What's Sara doing out in the woods? Tom doesn't bother to really contemplate that one, despite how shady this is. He's just glad Sara is okay and maybe will forgive him. He runs to the middle of a clearing he spots, panting with his cheeks red from the cold December air. "Sara!" he screams. Panic courses through his veins, and his heart is pumping excruciatingly fast in his chest. He can't catch his breath. Where's Sara? Is she even okay?

Suddenly, there's more crunching sounds in the woods.

"Tom!"

He turns around, hoping to find Sara, but there's nothing. He runs further ahead as snow starts to fall around him. His vision is blurry with tears prickling the corners of his eyes. He wipes them away because he's not a kid, and Sara is fine. Tom keeps telling himself this. It's a thing he learned in Psychology years ago that still makes since, even if he has done it unwillingly before. If he focuses on Sara being out, nine times out of ten, she will be.

"TOM!" Her voice is laced with pain and fear this time. Tom can feel the emotions in his own heart, so he starts running again. He needs to find her. What if she's getting hurt and he's not there to protect her? _Dammit, feet! Move faster!_ In his twenty-two years on this planet, he's never ran faster, not even during the timed mile in high school. Jason was always better at that stuff than him. _Why am I thinking about this right now?_

He falls to the ground in exhaustion. Tom pulls out his inhaler and takes in three puffs, trying to allow himself some much needed oxygen. The winter chill is setting in big time, causing his asthma to become a bitch yet again. He's in the process of regaining his breath when droplets of blood begin to fall in the snow. Tom's actually pretty calm in his search for the source, figuring he got a cut from one of the tree limbs. But, then, it becomes painfully obvious that this blood _isn't_ from him. He glances up toward the sky and screams as loud as he can.

Sara is strung up in the trees by her neck like a sack of food trying to be hidden from a bear. Blood is dripping from most likely every orifice she has. Tom vomits all over himself at the sight and begins to scream and scream and scream. Tears flow freely down his flushed cheeks, and he's hoping if he yells loud enough that the people at the party will hear. He can't breathe, and he certainly can't move.

"Tom!"

_What the hell?_

He doesn't have time to turn around this go around. Without any warning, a _thing _comes out from behind a tree. Slowly at first, it approaches him, its eyes a hollow black. Then, it begins to sprint in his direction before slashing open his Achilles heel as he tries to crawl away. Tom curdles and horrifically screeches in pain, biting his lip so hard that it begins to bleed. The _thing_ picks up a whimpering Tom and unstrings Sara before heading back into the dense woods.

* * *

"Dean, you gotta wake up."

The older Winchester moans and scrubs a hand down his stubbly cheeks, blinking at the brightness of the motel room. Sam's hand is still on his shoulder, and he shakes it away, rolling back over and smushing his face into the flat pillow. To add affect, he pulls the covers over his head. It's too early; he can tell because there's no sun outside, just the lights from lamps. He wakes up at sunrise, not by the hands of his Sasquatch baby brother.

"Seriously?"

Sam removes warm cocoon from around Dean, who immediately curls in on himself to hide the shivering. He's had the heater kicking most of the night because of how uncomfortable Dean was in the Impala yesterday, and he's shocked to discover that he fell asleep in sweat pants and a thermal long sleeved shirt. It's nearly seven in the morning, and his big brother should be ready to awaken by now, but this is just strange.

"Don't wanna, Sammy…" he mumbles, trembling harder. For some reason, he can't stay warm, and it's getting really old really fast. Ever since he took that swan dive into a lake two days ago, it's been getting worse. Bad thing is is that he thinks Sam is starting to catch on how weird this is. His brother is like the ninja of always knowing what's wrong and then hovering like a bitch to fix him. It's annoying and unnecessary, so Dean stumbles out of bed, ignoring his own previous plea of not wanting to move.

The younger Winchester watches Dean stiffly pull extra warm clothes out of his duffel and head toward the shower. He huffs and sits back down at the table, flipping his laptop open to do research. At about four this morning, the police scanner went off for a small town in Missouri that had two missing people. College party in the woods, a boy and a girl disappear, and blood splatters in the snow. Not to mention that it took place in Battinger Woods, one of the most notoriously "haunted" areas in the Midwest.

In the shower, Dean turns the water on as high as it will go, but even his blistering skin doesn't let him warm up. He's still shivering violently by the time he throws on an under set of thermals, jeans, a Henley, and his favorite wool socks. He brushes his teeth and runs a shaky hand through his hair before letting the viciously cold air of the room hit him like a ton of bricks. Without hesitating, he throws on Sam's navy blue hoodie and takes a seat across from his little brother, sniffling and trying to stifle a newfound desire to cough.

Sam nearly throws Dean back into bed as soon as his brother lays his head down on the table, pillowing his probably aching skull in his arms. But, Dean would literally fight him if he tried to interfere during the early stages of illness. His big brother so against being sick that he most likely hasn't even acknowledged how poor he's feeling yet. Eventually, he will, though. For now, Sam pretends not to notice the increasing quivers and sniffling and the fact the Dean's wearing his hoodie, something that only happens when he truly doesn't feel well.

"Two college kids missing in Missouri," he starts with, spinning the laptop around so Dean can read it for himself. Dean squints and tries to make sense of a bunch of blurry words, but his mind is too groggy to comprehend, and he also doesn't have his contacts in just yet. Sam chooses to continue himself rather than making Dean suffer. "They were at a party in Battinger Woods. Eyewitnesses say that Thomas Williams went deeper into the woods to find his girlfriend Sara Beckett. Neither of them have been seen since Saturday."

"Sounds like a normal abduction to me. Next case, dude."

Sam shakes his head. "There were spatters of blood found from where Williams started his search to the place where they think he was last at. No sign of the girl period. And the blood analysis can't be completed because the snow dissolved most of the traces." Dean sits up at this.

"What are we thinking?"

"Well, Battinger Woods is known for being 'haunted' in the first place. Twenty-one people have gone missing since 1976, and some reports even go as early as 1884. Strange howling noises, weird smells, and sightings of a skinny, hairless looking human roaming the woods."

"Wendigo?" Dean's voice is hoarse, and Sam grimaces as his brother swallows harshly. Still, the big brother goes on and tries to put together the information Sam has just presented him with. It could be considered admirable if Dean wasn't going to end up with pneumonia or bronchitis by the end of this hunt. And Sam knows that better than he knows his own name.

Sam nods. "That's what I'm thinking. It fits with all of the accounts, and it explains why none of the vics were never seen again."

"But this isn't a case Dad wants us to take?"

"No, but it's something to do until he tells us what to do next."

Sam, for one, is getting tired of following his missing father's mysterious orders. They've been running themselves into the ground going from case to case, and this is the first time in a while where they haven't received coordinates. He just wishes that his father would show up and actually tell them what's going on, not send them into the fray. He tries not to think about it, though, since it pisses him off to an entirely new level. Plus, he knows Dean isn't feeling up to arguing, so he chooses not to press the issue anymore. Dean obliges too.

Both of them stand up and start to get ready to leave. Sam packs his bags and notices the snot dripping from Dean's nostrils. He passes Dean a tissue, who accepts it and blows his nose harshly. His eyes droop almost immediately. "Do you want to hold this one off?" Sam asks cautiously, knowing this could set Dean off, especially since his brother just has to the "big and macho man."

"Quit being a bitch, Sam. I'm fine. Let's get out of here."

Sam goes back to stuffing shirts in his bag.

This is going to be interesting.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Oh no! Dean's not feeling so hot and doesn't want to rest. What dangerous territory they're teetering in. I know the second episode of the show is about a Wendigo, but I chose this creature for a specific reason, so hopefully it isn't stale because both are in season one. Papa Winchester will be here soon, so don't you worry! Anyway, the next chapter should be up soon. I hope you guys liked this first chapter! Please remember to review! =)


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** I do not own _Supernatural _or any of its characters.

Thank you so much for the positive feedback, reviews, favorites, and follows! It means a lot to me that many of you want to read more of this story. So, for you guys out there, here's the second chapter! By the way, I changed the title from "Little Soldier Boy" to "Daddy's Blunt Little Instrument" because of what Demon/Dream Dean calls Dean in season three, episode ten "Dream a Little Dream of Me." It's kind of symbolic as to what I'm writing about.

By the way, I am writing a case around this story, but be warned: it's not really about the hunt at all. I love writing sick Dean being vulnerable. In this story, Dean is sick enough to accept help from his brother, who he has been missing terribly. It's more of reluctant acceptance, but still. Most of this chapter has the "sweet" moments between the Winchesters. It doesn't stay like that for long, though. I'm just explaining because I don't want it to seem like I'm writing the boy, particularly Dean, out of character.

I hope you enjoy chapter two!

* * *

_Chapter Two_

* * *

Sam is sweating.

His breath is hot and fogs up window of the Impala, the heat stealing all of his energy. It feels like he's suffocating to death in a sauna, and fresh air is a concept that he can't even imagine right now. He's just about soaked through his button up, which is impressive because he's wearing two other layers below it. He's nearly hyperventilating in the blazing car. Sam has no idea how the stale, musty air isn't bothering Dean's asthma, but Dean isn't really paying attention.

Dean is still fighting the tremors that wrack his body. He's ice cold, the tips of his fingers and toes losing feeling long ago, and is unable to sustain a proper, consistent body temperature. He wipes his nose on Sam's hoodie sleeve and grimaces as he swallows. The road ahead of him is blurry and never ending. He could switch places with Sam and curl up against the window to sleep, but that would lead his genius brother to the conclusion that he really doesn't feel well.

It's nearly four in the afternoon, and he's been driving for going on five hours. Outside, flurries fly overhead, laying a fresh scene of Christmas that neither of them can enjoy. Dean pulls into a motel and blows his nose several times while Sam checks in. His eyes are half-mast and bloodshot when he returns. They're only here this early so they can get dressed and go talk to some witnesses, but Sam isn't sure Dean is even going to make it to that point.

The inside of the motel room is exponentially nicer than what the Winchesters are used to. Normally, it's puke green carpet, burnt orange bedding, and a bathroom that has crap still floating in the toilet. When Sam was thirteen, he actually got pneumonia from a room that was as damp as a troll's ass. The comforter is maroon, looking warm and inviting. The carpet is, God freakin' bless, dark grey and shaggy, the kind you can wiggle your toes in. Coffee maker, a television with more than three channels, and the smell is what Sam would imagine the scent of home is. He smiles and glances at his brother.

"This place is nice," he says. It was fairly cheap, and it'd be a damn near perfect area for Dean to battle this illness. Dean's only reply is a nod as he sits down on his bed and rummages through his bag for his pieces of his suit. They would definitely have to iron them, but oh well. He just wants to get this over so he can actually get under the covers and sleep. He sniffles again.

Sam begins trying to find his blue tie. "Why don't you take a nap, bro?"

Dean shakes his head. "I'm good."

"Seriously. We have a few hours to kill," he says, even though he knows that's not true. If missing interviews today will allow Dean to rest, then he'll stay here for days if that's what it takes. Carefully, he watches his older brother surrender and curl up into a ball on top of the blankets. He snuggles his face into the fluffy pillow and tries to avoid the snot bubbles brought on by his position.

"Can't sleep, Sammy," he mumbles, sitting back up immediately to blow his chapped, sore nose. His hands are shaking as he grabs a tissue out of the hoodie pouch, and Sam winces in sympathy. He grabs the first aid kit from his bag and pulls out some Nyquil. It will knock the shorter man out like a light for the rest of the day and probably most of the night, but, like he said, Dean needs to sleep. He's miserable.

He hands the pills to his brother. "Take them, Dean." The older Winchester twitches his head, avoiding Sam's hand like the plague. He does not want those things right now. Every time he takes them, he sleeps for nearly a whole day and has vivid nightmares. Plus, he doesn't like being taken care of, and he's feeding into Sam's whole "let me help you" mantra. He's the big brother, and big brothers take care of the little brothers, not the other way around.

"Don't wanna."

"You're acting like a baby."

"Make me sleepy."

Sam chuckles. "That's kinda the point. C'mon, man. I'll wake you up later on, and we can go talk to those college students."

Dean knows it's a lie, but he goes along with it because he's exhausted and irritated. They've been searching for their day for what seems like forever, and they never get any closer. Truth is, he misses his father. When Sam left, Dad was all Dean had left. When John left Dean repeatedly to go on solo hunts, that's when it hurt the older of the boys the most. Thinking about at all gets him worked up, so he harshly dry swallows the pills and rolls away from Sam.

"Goodnight, Dean."

He doesn't even feel Sam's hand glide gently down his back before he's asleep.

* * *

"Nnhhnnn..."

His entire body spasms as he rolls over. Tears swell in the corners of his eyes. His nose feels like it's three sizes too big for his face. Sweat is dripping down his flushed cheeks and pooling around the neck of Sam's hoodie. Through overly tired eyes, he can read that it's just past three in the morning. His teeth chatter as he sits up, nearly vomiting at the pain tugging at his chest. He lets a congested, barking cough honk out of his crackling lungs.

Sam startles himself awake at the sound of his sick brother coughing. He quickly jumps up, body trained all too well with being sensitive to sounds, and rushes to Dean's side. He can hear the strain in the breaths and how much labor they seem to be taking. Dean's inhaler was placed on the nightstand for this reason. He forces him to take three puffs and rubs his back, feeling the tremors that still shock his core. Sam bites his bottom lip so hard it bleeds.

Dean collapses against his chest and closes his eyes, completely and totally worn out from his coughing jag. Sam tries to ignore the tears flowing freely from his brother. Vulnerability and conversation aren't Dean's strong suits by any means, so it's rare to see one of the two. _He must be in a lot of pain._ It doesn't make him full on freak out yet because of how emotionally wrecked Dean is from high fevers. It's been like that since they were kids.

Cold. Achy. Tired. He wants to go sleep so badly. His right nostril is burning, and his left is running all over the place. Sam's hoodie is no longer a source of warmth; it's an icebox. He can feel the sweat dripping underneath his layers of clothes. His toes are freezing even though he's wearing wool socks. His hands won't stop shaking long enough for him to grab his brother's attention.

Like a mind reader, Sam pulls off the navy blue hoodie and is alarmed by how soaking wet it is. All of Dean's underclothes are drenched, and Sam mother hens it up so much that he's practically undressing him. He leaves Dean in his plaid boxers, puts on a new thin, oversized long sleeved t-shirt, and a less stifling pair of grey socks. He can tell he's freezing and miserable, but his temperature is tipping way toward the upper end of the scale. It's not enough for a cold shower, but it's enough for Sam's heart to be racing.

He bundles Dean into his own bed since the older man's is beyond just damp, gives him three Tylenol, and crawls in beside him. Dean still has tears leaking out of swollen and puffy eyes, so Sam scoots closer, wrapping his around around quivering shoulders. His older brother stiffens, but slowly relaxes as he falls asleep, facing practically buried into Sam's heater of a chest.

And Sam wonders how they got to this point. Jess's death. Dad's disappearance. Him leaving for Stanford. Mom erupting into a ball of blames over his nursery when his older brother was four. Are these all part of the reasons why Dean chooses him above anyone else?

* * *

Sam struggles to remove himself from his brother at noon.

At some point in the middle of the night, Sam rolled on to his back, and Dean squished his face into his belly. Dean opens up bleary eyes and bundles deeper into the comforter as Sam gets up. He's kind of thankful that he can tell his brother isn't about to burst into tears. He even bats Sam's hand away when he goes for his forehead. "It's either this or the thermometer," he says, cracking a smile when Dean scowls. His forehead is clammy and warm, but nothing like it was last night. _Maybe we're out of the woods._

"Good?" Dean's voice is still hoarse.

He shrugs. "Not bad compared to earlier. We should stay here for the day and ride the rest of it out, though."

"Dude, I'm good. Let's just get out of here."

_Great. Now we're back to this stage again. _

"Dean, I have the best blackmail ever. We are so not going anywhere until you can go an hour without snuggling me like a teddy bear." He can tell he's pissed his brother off, but he doesn't care. Dean is so quick to sacrifice his health for the job. He had about had an asthma attack, is still coughing and running a fever, and has went through two boxes of tissues. It may just be a difficult cold, but they're not going to have him suffer for the rest of the hunt.

The green-eyed man stands on legs quivering like jelly anyway.

"Where are you going?"

"Shower. Wanna hold my hand during that too?" Dean spits out, gesturing as he turns toward the bathroom. He gathers his still wrinkled suit, and Sam hears the door lock behind him. He sighs and begins to iron his slacks as he listens to the shower water run. Sam really hates how difficult his brother can be.

The hot water is comforting to Dean's sore chest. He rotates his shoulder blades and takes a minute to breathe in the fact that he's actually warm, hot even, for the first time in nearly five days. After he's finished relishing the heat, he dries himself, buttons up his blue dress shirt, and even gels and parts his hair to exaggerate the whole "FBI" thing. He's out of the bathroom in record time, muscles still aching and nose still pouring, but feeling considerably better than he did yesterday. Maybe a good night's rest is all he needed.

"Dean, we gotta go," Sam tells him.

_Now what?_

"What? Why?"

Sam's bitch face molds. "Another 'abduction' in Battinger Woods."

Well holy shit. He didn't see that one coming. With no questions asked, Dean listens while throwing on his dress shoes and tie as Sam briefs him on what happened. Judah and Zach Adler were on a hiking trip, supposed to be gone for two weeks, didn't come back home, blah blah blah. It's old news to Dean since they dealt with a case just like this a few months ago. He blows his nose and coughs a few more times, flipping through the television channels while waiting for Princess Samantha to get out of the shower.

By the time Sam is dressed, Dean has fallen asleep again, his head dangling toward his chest. He snaps a picture on his cell phone and pats him on the leg. "Huh?" His voice is muddled with congestion, and Sam can see right through him. Dean is going to push himself and be all gung ho to kill this Wendigo while dragging himself to exhaustion at the same time. There is no winning here, and Sam knows it. That's why he's not going to fight.

"Ready, sunshine?"

"Kiss my ass," Dean bites back playfully.

* * *

Jason Fletcher is twenty-two like Sam. Sandy blond hair and dimples. Blue eyes and a killer smile. Too bad he looks like a total douche to Dean. They're in the kid's frat house. He's watching two boys ride their new inductee like a pony. He wants to smirk, but his nose is twitching and on fire. His eyes keep watering, and his contacts are really bothering him. Sam keeps asking stupid ass questions, and Dean keeps staring at the ass hat frat monkeys.

"And you say this is the last time you saw Tom?"

Jason nods. "Yeah. And he just like went to go find Sara."

"Who had a fight earlier than night?"

"Some stupid shit with parents."

There's an almost awkward silence for a bit. During this time, Dean manages to squirm so much on the couch that Sam ends up scooting closer. He can tell that his pansy baby brother probably wants to hug and drug like he did last night, but he wants no part of that today. He wants to go into these Battinger Woods and torch this Wendigo, not sit here and listen to a douche nugget talk about his friend like he was a piece of trash.

"Yo! No puking on the leather!" Jason shouts. "Sorry, dudes. I gotta split."

Sam and Dean just exchange thankful glances.

* * *

"Where did you say we're heading now?" Dean asks. It's dusk and getting hard for him to see with watering eyes. He removed his contacts at a gas station restroom; he can't see with them when he's sick anyway. Too annoying. Sam is flipping through Dad's journal and writing things down, a pen in one hand and his phone basically strapped to his ear.

"The Adler's place," he whispers. "Yes, ma'am. Thank you. That's all I needed. You too."

"What was that about?"

"That was Alison Chaney. Her husband owns a farm just outside of Battinger Woods: twenty-some feet away from the start. She said that she heard screams the night the Adler's disappeared, but didn't think anything of it because she hears it all the time."

Dean's eyes widen. "Should we call the police for that?"

"We technically_ are_ the police, Dean."

The older one shrugs, still disturbed by Mrs. Chaney's lack of sympathy. Just because her husband runs a creepy ass barn in the middle of butt hole nowhere doesn't mean she should ignore pleads for help. "What are you writing, Point Dexter?" His little brother is such a nerd.

"Making a timeline of all of the disappearances. All of them happened during the first week of December since 1884. No surviving victims, but there have always been reports of screams being heard for 'miles' in the deeper part of the woods. I figured after we talk to the Adler's and get you rested up we could go investigate in the actual woods," Sam says, not bothering to look up from his notes. He feels Dean's signature glare burning a hole through his coat.

"I'm fine, Sam," he grumbles. He's sick and tired of Sam trying to baby him just because of last night. He didn't feel well. End of story. Now, he's going to be haunted because he's twenty-six and shared a bed with his stupid baby brother because he was too stupid to not man up. He should have listened to Dad. Vulnerability gets him nowhere, even with Sammy.

Sam shrugs. _Sure you are. _"Turn right here." Dean puts his baby in park, blows his raw nose once more, and climbs out. "Hold on a sec." He leans against her beautiful black surface and shivers. It snowed about two inches last night, and it's soaking into his shoes. "Put these on." Sam tosses him a case, very noticeably his glasses case. "I know you don't have your contacts in."

Dean throws the case in the back seat. "Nah."

"You can't see without them."

"So?"

_Oh my God, it's the Tylenol incident all over again_.

"Dean, just put them on."

When Dean was sixteen, he discovered he needed glasses. Never in a million years would he have imagined that _he_ (in all his gorgeousness) would have to wear _those._ Farsightedness left him with the ability to hit a target off into the woods, but unable to see his homework or clean the guns properly. Astigmatisms riddled his vision, and his optometrist told him point blank that his eyes were terrible. He was left with thick corrective lenses until his dad discovered how dangerous it was to hunt with them on. Until they could afford contacts, Dean never wore his glasses when he hunted. Of course, this just made him hypersensitive about his vision problems.

He shakes his head. "Nah."

Sam rolls his eyes, but decides it's best not to push him.

The Adler's house is spotless as Mrs. Adler, an old hag in her seventies with curly grey hair, leads them to the living room. Inside, there are pictures of her two boys, the aforementioned Judah and Zach Adler. One of them was a good head taller than the other. _Huh. Small world, I guess._

Mrs. Adler immediately breaks into water works. Sam puts his hand on her shoulder and tries to comfort the lady. Dean wipes his nose on his suit sleeve and stifles more coughing. "Ma'am, we are so sorry to bother you right now, but we need some answers about your sons."

Sniffle. Dab with a tissue. "Anything you need."

"Mrs. Adler, where were your sons going on this hike?"

"They were just on a fishing trip. Since Zach came back from college, Judah has been dying to spend some time with him."

"And what does Judah do?"

She smiles. "He takes care of me and the house. He also works as a mechanic down at Freddy's."

"And Zach's a college student?"

"Zachary graduated in late November from Yale. It was a huge family thing. He's studying to be a lawyer."

This sends a twinge of pain and regret storming through Sam's heart like a lightning bolt. He gulps and nervously fidgets, knowing he may have given away his sadness to both Mrs. Adler and Dean. He misses Stanford and Jess and his friends and his old life more than he's willing to admit to his still broken up brother. He glances away from Mrs. Adler to try to hide the tears and forget the scent of Jess when she laid down in bed with him after a long day of homework.

Dean clears his throat, ignoring how similar this seems to his life and how torn to pieces Sam looks. "Did your sons say anything to you about these particular woods?"

Mrs. Adler scoffs. "All Zachary did was tell Judah about how 'haunted' it was. He said there was a monster there. Me and Judah didn't believe it anyway."

Nausea bubbles up in the pit of Sam's stomach as he half listens to Dean's questioning. He keeps hearing Jess's voice over and over again, tasting the cookies she made for him before his gruesome discovery, relieving the nightmare. Only he's awake this time. Tears prickle the corners of his eyes, and he folds his hands in his lap. He doesn't pay attention until Dean grabs his knee. He wipes his eyes with the back of his hand.

"Thank you very much for your time, Mrs. Adler," Dean says. "We will be on the look out for your sons."

Sam nods and follows Dean outside. When they get to the Impala, Dean watches Sam's bottom lip quiver as he stares out the window, refusing to look at him. The older Winchester gulps. "You okay?" he asks quietly, not wanting to anger or upset his little brother in any way right now. He won't crack another joke or make another smart ass remark until he knows Sam is ready to communicate about anything, not just about what's really wrong.

"Yeah."

* * *

Sam is fast asleep. He's sprawled across his bed under the comforter on his stomach.

Dean's been alternating between research and making sure his brother is okay and comfortable. He was afraid that Sam was starting to catch what he has, but he ruled that out. Sam has no symptoms anyway. He gives him Tylenol anyway to help with the headache he could see forming. As silently as he can, Dean wriggles some of the snot out, letting the rest of it coat his dress shirt.

He changes into plaid bottoms and another one of Sam's hoodies before crawling into bed: Sam's bed to be specific. His brother needs the comfort now. Plus, his comforter is slopped with his sweat, and he doesn't want to sleep in his own sickness again. He throws his arm over Sam's waist and lets his eyes close.

* * *

In the darkness, a man wearing black watches the two Winchesters sleep, carefully calculating what he should do next.

* * *

**Author's Note: **Well, there's chapter two! I am terribly sorry if this is boring or entirely out of character. I like it when the boys are sympathetic. I can't help it! Anyway, thank you so much for reading! Please remember to review!


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